


Blue Sunshine

by hotot (orphan_account)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexuality, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Freeform, Genderqueer Character, Ghouls, Needles, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postpartum Depression, Queer Themes, SS had a Daughter, Secret Identity, Serial Killers, Sexual Experimentation, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6416392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hotot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naomi is walking wounded,  using chems and sarcasm to keep up with the brutal new world while on the hunt for her daughter. Along the way she finds herself in the company of a couple of Commonwealth do-gooders who remind her that she used to actually, genuinely care, just by caring so damn much themselves. </p><p>Piper writes, Hancock campaigns, and they both kinda want to lick her...</p><p>Just some Sole Survivor angst served with a side shameless ghoul smut and sleeping with the press.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>No longer updating.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandpaper Peachfuzz

**Author's Note:**

> No love triangles. You will not be seeing any serious Piper/Hancock (okay maybe a drunken makeout or group cuddles). They are just not into each other like that. They both have the hots for Naomi though, and everything is cool after initial negotiations. SS has enough drama in her life without her goons going aggro.

Naomi does not like the Commonwealth. She does not like raiders or gangers or ghouls or _fucking deathclaws_. She does not like the Brotherhood of Steel and their singularly minded arrogance. The Institute is her enemy simply because they have her child, but even if they had not been implicated she would have disliked them just as readily as she disliked the Brotherhood. She wholly and passionately distrusts any institution at all. Settlements are fine-- necessary and even occasionally they are _good_. The Minutemen are tolerable because they actually make things better instead of blowing them up or stealing them or _studying_ them. But the Minutemen are all but extinct. Too good for this world, too pure. It’s why they had almost died out, the one time. 

Now she is their _General,_ furthering their cause. 

Naomi does not like agendas, or angels. She does not like “furthering the cause.”

What cause? 

She has one cause. Find Sara. Everything she does is for that cause. A cascade of sub-causes have her spiraling down as she thinks about what she must do to _find Sara_ , a nested hierarchy of needs that drop her into a deep, dark pit that ends up taking her further from her goals, not closer to them. 

She stands calmly in the pool of lamplight in the markets of Diamond city, trying not to panic.

Finding Sara means she has to survive. To survive she needs allies, because she’s a lawyer and a housewife and a mother, and not a soldier or a murderer, though she’s pretty sure she’s actually a murderer now, and the thought makes her… proud. She still is scared every time she walks down the road, but she’s also angry and has a hair trigger. 

Naomi thinks she might be going crazy.

Winning allies means she must make herself likeable and useful and effective. She must be admarable to people like Piper and Nick Valentine, who were unaffiliated and mobile. Those are the allies she needs. She trains daily, pushes herself relentlessly, chems up when the fighting gets to hard or when she can’t bear it any more, and asks endless questions to anyone that will stop and let her catch their ear. It seems to be working. These people who had stopped to help her, or she stopped to help, seem to… be her friends. Piper is definitely harboring a crush, which Naomi, if she’s being honest, _does not_ mind. Nick seems to find her amusing, but more than that, they are Partners. Capital ‘p.’ They rely on each other.

 _And_ she’s Preston’s boss. 

She can’t think about Preston.

He reminds her so much of Nate and it _hurts_ and she tries not to actively _hate him_ for being so like her late husband but it _hurts_ and she _hates_ him for it. 

Oh, Nate. Sweet, idealistic Nate. 

Standing in the heart of Diamond City, she remembers that it used to be called the Green Monster and how they’d had season tickets in ‘77 and Nate was going to get some autographs after the game and hoped that Sara would like baseball as much as her mum did. Standing in the heart of what was probably center field, surrounded by vendors and baseball gear clad guards and the smell of noodles burning her abused nose, Naomi decides that she will _not_ play ball. 

It’s late, but Diamond City does not slow down. The electric lights are on and Naomi, Dogmeat on her heels, stands in a pool of light.

She does like her dog. Dogmeat is the absolute best in the absolute worst way-- he reminds her of Alife, if Alfie had come home before the bombs went off. Intelligent eyes, almost human enough you think he might just start talking your ear off, offering opinions about the things she does or doesn't do, teasing her for being a hoarder. But Dogmeat doesn’t do that. He just searches for stuff like chems and water, and watches her with concerned brown eyes.

Just like Nate used to watch her when she got into one of her moods, post partum, when she was crying and Sara was crying and she couldn’t stop or make the baby stop. 

Puppy dog eyes.

She’d still been lactating when she’d woken up. It _disturbed_ her to be leaking milk from her breasts 201 years after giving birth, but if she was being honest, having a baby had disturbed her 200 years ago when she’d been pregnant, when she’d gone through labor, when she’d had a serious bout of postpartum depression for the first six months of beautiful, perfect tiny Sara’s life. She just couldn’t… be the mother Nate wanted her to be.

It wasn’t natural to her, holding and feeding and cleaning. That had been Nate’s gig. 

Fuck.

“Haircut! Most fashionable cuts in the Commonwealth!” Dogmeat stuffs his wet nose in the palm of her hand and whines. She scratches him absently. 

Nick Valentine thinks that the brain of a dead man can lead her to her living child. Her baby. Not a baby any more, Naomi reminds herself. A young girl. Sara is ten now. She’s got a new home. The Institute. Her fingers curl to cut little crescents of pain into her palm with jagged nails. A place that might not even exist. Like Camelot. Like Atlantis. Like the 10th level of hell. Her jaw juts and she stifles a sob. Or is it a growl? Mama bear and broken doll are all mixed together because they took Sara and killed Nate and left her on ice for ten more fucking years and…. The future is trying to kill her. Unmake her. Fix what 200 years couldn’t do.

Piper wants and interview, but Naomi doesn’t know what to say. What do you say to people who think the future is the present? What do you say about the fact that your future, their present, is trying it’s damndest to kill you? 

She sticks a grape mentats in her mouth and lets the glassy little lozenge dissolve. Mentats makes her lucky and talkative. Might make her brave enough to do what she’s about to do.

It takes a moment to the chems to kick in. Dogmeat woofs quietly and wags his tail, tentative. He never judges her for using chems like her other companions do. Nick quietly worries, while Piper vocally tries to dissuade her. The others have their own reactions and she pointedly, stubbornly ignores them all. 

Naomi doesn’t care. 

She takes a deep breath.

“I’d like a haircut, please.”

The young man grins at her as he eyes her black hair. It’s long, ragged. When she’d been put on ice it had been elegantly curled, and the three months she’s spent running around in this New American Hell have not done her any favors in the looks department, though she still looks a hell of a lot better than most of the residents of the Commonwealth. She’s padded, soft and curvy from pre-war life. She’d once been a Human Rights lawyer who’d put her career on hold for family she’d never actually wanted. Lawyer and housewife were both appearance-conscious professions. Now she is also apparently a General, an Initiate in the Brotherhood, a scaver, a ‘dweller ( _the_ dweller, she reminds herself), a wanderer. A widower and a very bad mother. And she suspects she’d developing a slight dependence on Med-X. Maybe if she didn’t get _shot at_ so much, she wouldn’t need the damn chems.

Well, she is wasted. She should look the part.

Taking a seat in the old barber chair, her finger skims the images. It’s such an oddly familiar feeling. She used to go to the hair dresser’s every week, get a color touch up or a coiffe for a party. Hair hasn’t changed much in 200 years (except maybe that it’s more prone to falling out from the rads) but options are rather limited to her lifestyle choices. No…. lifestyle _compulsions._ Not like Naomi has a choice in the matter. She frowns at the hair styles. None of these will do. Too long, too fussy. To short, too butch. Nothing wrong with butch, of course, except Naomi always did like being obscenely pretty. Bangs? No thanks. Finally her finger settled on a look she might like. It’s tousled, so the grime and dust will look natural. It’s short, but not shorn. And the sides….

“Take it down to the scalp,” she instructs the barber. The mentas make the thrill in her stomach exciting instead of terrifying, and she fixes herself with a stare. Dogmeat flops down at her feet, closing his big brown eyes and sighing as the weird human gets groomed. Naomi pauses as she flips through the colors. “And make it red.”

~~~

Piper sort of sputters as Naomi walks into the Publick Occurrences office. 

The woman is hard at work on a much abused broadsheet, carefully re-sticking her layout with miniscule amounts of adhesive. “You look…”

“Barbaric?” Naomi suggests, rubbing the the rough sandpaper of stubble that wraps around the lower part of her scalp. The top of her hair falls just to her chin in loose waves, perhaps a bit shorter than she wanted, but… damn. She’s scared of herself. Looking into the mirror is like staring back at a whole new person. 

Or maybe the razor had just trimmed back a few obstifcating layers, to revel the real Naomi that lay beneath black, lank curls.

She looks damn good for 231 years old. 

Piper coughs. “I was gonna say ‘hot,’ but then I’d have to turn in my writer’s licence.”

“You need a license for that, now?” Piper looks at her like she’s stupid, like Naomi doesn’t know she’s joking, those hazel eyes narrowed for a moment before she figures it out, a smirk playing at her lips, and she thumbs the brim of her hat. Naomi is still high from the Mentas and trying to hide it, and she laughs. It’s easier to laugh when she’s high. Somehow being around Piper makes it easier to laugh as well.

Piper grins crookedly, and she can sense another impassioned rant coming on, so Naomi interrupts before the Mentas wears off and she loses her nerve. 

“So, how about that interview?” Piper’s eyes light up, she’s practically bouncing. 

Naomi still hasn’t decided how she’s gonna play it-- but maybe a bit of honesty would do her heart good.


	2. The Blasted World

Naomi had done the interview in Diamond City, and then asked if Piper would like to visit Sanctuary the next day. She had some General-of-the-Minutemen things to do, and her latest project was shoring up the Red Rocket’s defenses to use as a private base. Just a few days in Sanctuary, then back to Diamond City to meet with Valentine and head to Goodneighbor to get the brain stuff sorted out. Piper had agreed to come along for the first part. She avoided Goodneighbor as a rule-- first of all, getting there was a nightmare, and the place gave her the creeps. She was too noisy a gal to get much of a welcome in those parts, anyway.

She’d thought a little writing vacation up in the country might do her good. You know, get away from the city and the noise, get some slightly less rancid air, clear her head.

She’d thought it would help, but Piper has a serious case of writer’s block.

The oil lantern throws a pool of warm light across the desk that Blue had installed in the side room of the Red Rocket, but it isn’t enough to help with Piper’s eyes. Blue had commented that there use to be doctors that only ever looked at people's eyes and gave them special glasses to help with those sorts of things, and Piper wondered at the sheer indulgence of the pre war world.

A headache was creeping up on her. Again. Tossing down her pen, Piper rubbed at her temples, with ink-stained hands. The ballpoint pens Blue found for her keep leaking, getting the sticky, effusive stuff everywhere.

When Piper had first met Blue at the gates of Diamond City, her reporter senses had tingled. Blue vault suit. Wild eyed and… scowling. Angry and afraid.

Piper is a strategist, always looking for an angle, and using the dweller woman to work her way past the guards had ended up being a rabbit hole of opportunities and a wealth of stories. Blue’s story is the one she’s been looking for since she’d started the paper. This is the story of the century. The story of two centuries.

Now, she just had to write it.

No pressure, right?

There were pre-war ghouls, of course, but they had lived for two centuries, their experiences and perceptions eroded by time and rads and decay. Blue is almost inhuman in a different way: a hard, bright outsider’s perspective that gives Piper just the right angle to tell a real story, one that is somehow both timeless and painfully familair.

Naomi-- though Piper called her Blue even in her head, is a woman frozen in time, awoken to a harsh new worlds of rads and super-mutants, where everything is dying even as it’s trying to kill her.

Naomi is... a fascinating woman. Timeless, yet also painfully familiar. It wasn’t until after she found out the Institute has her daughter, this stolen baby-turned-child that she decides to do the interview and share her full story. Blue knows Piper is waging a war of words against the Institute, and the significance of coming to the reporter only after that little revelation is not lost on Piper.

It would have been helpful if Blue had actually taken the interview seriously.

_“It was just me… and thousands of guinea pigs. They turned carnivorous.” Blue is looking at her blithely, her tone breathy and a little on edge, baiting Piper._

How was she supposed to work with that? Naomi had made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about the vault, and Piper didn’t blame her, but...

Of course, she is a sarcastic smartass. Maybe that’s why Piper likes her so much. To wake up 200 years in the future with a dead husband and a missing child would drive anyone to some sort of bitterness, but Piper suspected the sarcastic streak was a bit more ingrained in her personality than a post cryo coping mechanism.

She wonders absently what Blue had been like before the war. Maybe she needs to do a bit more research… another interview, some personal expose or... She bites her lip, thinking about pre-war Blue, and her pen taps absently, smearing oily, clinging ink across her fingers.

If Piper’s being honest, she’s just thinking about Blue.

Not thinking. Daydreaming.

Such lovely eyes, that woman has… and the way she fills out a jumpsuit should be a crime--

Piper hears a noise and the pen stops it tapping. She listens, reaching for her pistol. Blue is out scavenging with Dogmeat, but they should be getting back soon. Piper is suddenly aware of how dark it is, and jumps when she hears the noise again, this time accompanied by the crack of a rifle and the the lower boom of a shotgun.

Piper is up and out the door in an instant, article forgotten, loading her pistol as she moves.

“C’mon Dogmeat, bark again,” she mutters as she runs across the road, heading east. She follows the noise of distant gunfire, and...

There-- the green glow of something electronic… pip boy? Blue is in cover, but it’s too dark to see anything else. Dogmeat barks again, and Piper sees the flash of leather against trees and aims, fires. A raider screams and blood sprays from a torn throat, and then she’s earnestly in the firefight, exchanging the rapport of gunshots with her heart in her throat.

One of the raiders jumps at Blue with a barbed-wire wrapped bat, and Piper can’t get a good shot in, but Dogmeat leaps at the man’s legs tangling them and biting down on a knee. Blue is toting a combat rifle, her chosen weapon, and the rider flys back with a ruined chest, and it’s over.

Silence and darkness fall, disrupted the sudden burst of light on Naomi’s pip boy and her ragged breathing.

“Hell, Blue,” Piper sighs, shocked at the relief that is pumping through her chest. “Thought you were going scavenging, not hunting.”

“Business…” Blue pants, and then shifts against her cover with a pained grunt, “and pleasure.” She’s not getting up and Piper rushes forward when she realizes something’s wrong.

“Do you...uh… have a stimpak?”

“Oh god, Blue, are you okay?” She fishes in her pockets, but there’s nothing, not even a stick of gum. It’s all back at the Rocket. Stupid, to run out here in the dark and leave everything behind.

“I’m fine… just got some buckshot in the thigh, can’t bear weight. Find me a stick or something?”

Piper kneels down to see where the wound is bleeding sluggishly. “Shit, okay. Well-- just lean on me, okay?” Piper offers her hand and Blue takes it, warm and smooth against Piper’s ink-stained and calloused ones. God, what was her life like before the war to have hands like that?

“Okay, but we need my scavange, too.” There’s a bag beside her, bulging with god knows what. The woman was obsessed with scavenging.

“You mean your junk?” Piper pulls her up and slings one arm over her shoulder, grabbing the scaver bag in her other hand. Dogmeat circles them worriedly, whining as they start to limp back to the Rocket. Blue’s got a few inches on her so they actually fit together pretty well. She smells good. Like leather, blood, and something… foreign. Rich and delicate. Unnamable. Must be what a vault smells like, even though she hasn’t been back there in a month. She’d spent two-hundred years in cryo. That had to change one’s chemistry.

They began the slow walk back to the Rocket. Blue is muttering under her breath about damn raiders. “They’d been harassing Sanctuary, apparently. I found some supplies the settlement had been missing.”

“Is that why this bag’s so damn heavy?”

“No… that’s the blowtorch.”

“Why… do you have a blowtorch?”

“For the fuel, Piper. Besides, I can scrap the metal.” She’s leaning heavily on Piper as they navigate a rock, and there is a touch of pain edging her voice. “How am I ever going to get this place… livable if I don’t… find stuff to rebuild--ow!” Blue stumbles.

“Shit, sorry.” Piper’s arm tightens around her waist and they press on. The way back seems much farther than the sprint from the Rocket.

They pick their way across the broken road, and Piper brings her to the little bedroom that Blue has set up for herself. It’s a tiny windowless room, and Piper doesn't understand why they don’t just stay at Sanctuary-- safety in numbers with actual houses, and damn but Piper doesn't like the quiet.

Blue is bleeding and Piper goes to find a stimpak, returning to see Blue peeling herself out of her armor and the vault jumpsuit. Piper flushes as she sees the curve of her thigh against the dirty sheet, and hands her the syringe, eyes darting anywhere but the expanse of brown skin.

“Thanks,” Naomi mutters, finding a vein and easing the needle into her arm. She hisses, and then sighs as the drug does its work, washing her with healing. She flops back onto the bed, tugging off her jumpsuit the rest of the way.

The flesh is mottled and shredded, and it’s going to take a few more stimpaks to heal up right, as well as some digging out the shot.

“Hey Blue, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she says, digging around in a duffle bag for a t-shirt and a first aid kit. “I gotta get this buckshot out of the worst of the wound, anyway. Stay and distract me.”

She’s got another syringe and and Piper shudders as she watches the needle stab into the soft skin of the woman’s wrist. Med-x for the pain. And perhaps the pleasure.... Blue does so enjoy her chems, though she usually used them as performance enhancers and not for recreation. Blue begins to perform efficient triage on the numbed and stimmed wound and Piper chews her lip.

“How come you stay here, at the Rocket? Why not Sanctuary?”

Blue freezes. “Are you asking as a reporter? Or a friend?”

“I’m always a reporter, Blue.” She pauses, thinking this through. It wasn’t curiosity that had prompted the question, but concern. “But, because it’s you, I’m asking as a friend.” She laughs, unable to keep the bitterness from the sound. “Funny, I don’t really get to say that very often. Yeah. I’m asking because you’re my friend and... It just seems safer there, ya know?”

Naomi sits back down, sighing. “All right. Just promise that you won’t put any of this in the article? Maybe it’ll give you some insight, but I it’s incredibly personal. Sit,” she says as she leans against the headboard. There is nowhere to go but the bed or the floor, so Piper chooses the floor. Naomi is looking at her, but when Piper catches her gaze her eyes dart away.

“So, something I didn’t share in our interview. When I woke up in the Vault… it was just outside Sanctuary.”

“Yeah, I know. Everyone knows. That’s where 111 is. It’s on your suit.” She gestures to the garment, crumpled on the floor.

“But what nobody knows…” Blue seemed to be struggling with something, like she can’t quite get a breath. “Sanctuary is where I lived before the bombs went off.”

Piper’s breath hitches in her throat. “Oh…” she breathes, and for once she’s at a loss for words. She had figured Blue was from the Commonwealth somewhere, some sort of “Boston” person, but… oh god. She must have walked right through town, lost, confused. Utterly alone. Something cold grips her heart as she imagined that awakening. It would be hell for anyone, but to know it had been Naomi that had walked, shell shocked and cryo-sick, through the ruins of her old town, just moments after waking up to find her husband dead and her child stolen...

Suddenly Naomi’s life, her situation just became a lot more real.

“I’m so sorry, Blue. That must have been awful.” She feels stupid for saying it, but there was nothing else she could say. Piper wrapped her arms around her knees, studying a hole in her pants with interest.

Naomi sighs, staring at the fraying, dirt-crusted rug under Piper’s feet, not even noticing her platitudes. “I can go to Sanctuary. I can work there, help it grow, but... I can’t sleep there, not ever. The Rocket is more… neutral. Even though this is where I’d go to get fuel on my way to the city, or get my car fixed. There are memories here too.”

Piper nods. “Well, you’re doing a great job cleaning up the Rocket. It’s pretty homey already, and you’re relentless. Soon it’ll be a palace.”

Naomi smiles sadly. “It’ll never be the same, though.”

“Of course not. All the rads and the raiders and the rubble and everything see to that.”

Naomi looks up, and there’s a brightness there-- not of hope, but of fever. She’s burning up with what she’s left unsaid. Piper knows that look, knows that feeling. She talks so much because she thinks it helps her get rid of that feeling.

When she speaks again, her voice is small, and strained. “I keep feeling like… a time traveler out of some science-fiction story. Like the vault was just a time machine and that maybe… if I work hard enough, if I find Sara and destroy my enemies, that I’ll find a way back. Like I’m a hero in a fucking story or something, you know? That it’ll all work out right in the end, and I’ll get to go home.”

Piper is watching her and it might just be the most honest she’d ever seen the woman. Open, and sad, and… so beautiful. This was the Naomi that was buried under the sarcasm, the jokes about guinea pigs and the smells of the Commonwealth.

This was the woman Piper wanted to write about.

“That’s not possible, Blue. You’re here. There’s nothing you can do but move forward.”

“I know, Piper. But listen, it’s like…” She pauses, her eyes distant as she searches for her words. “Like missing a limb. You still feel it because it used to be part of you. You know if you look down or try to use it it’s not going to be there, but the feeling of it still being there is so real.”

It hurts.

She doesn't say it, but she doesn't need to. Of course it hurts, dumbass. They sat there in silence for a while, each keeping their own thoughts, each feeling the weight of the blasted world.

Piper pushes herself up off the ground with a grunt. “I should… get back to writing that article. Shout if you need me, and…”

“Piper?” Her voice is quiet, dreamy like it gets when she’s on Med-X.

Piper shifts nervously. After her first comment on Naomi’s drug use she hadn’t said anything else. They all had their ways of coping. “Yeah, Blue?”

“Is… everything okay between us?” The smallness of her voice made Piper stare. Did things seem… not okay?

“Of course, Blue. I respect the hell out of you, you know? Even if you’re one of the weirdest people I’ve ever met, what with the being from before the war and all the junk collecting and the sarcasm and stuff.” And stuff? Great word choice, Piper.

“Thanks. You’re the first person I’ve met who doesn't want anything from me besides my story. I appreciate it.”

“Aw, hell. Blue, you’ve been through a lot. The least I can do is listen. Promise what you told me isn’t going to end up the the article.” Her friend-sense and reporter-sense were at war as she left the tiny bedroom. On the one hand, the image of Blue crawling out of the Vault and into the ruins of her own life made such a compelling story. It would grab readers, make them…

But no. Piper is too close to not just knowing about Blue’s pain, but sharing it. She’d promised. She settles back into the desk tucked next to the monstrosity that is Blue’s power armor and stand, and relights the lamp.

Piper stares at the blank paper for a long time, and then her pen started to scratch over the page.

Tales From the Vault, Part 1

~~~

Hours later, when light was just creeping into the lower sky, Piper lays out her sleeping bag on the floor in the room over from Blue when she hears her name.

“Piper?” Her voice sounds small, far away, even though she’s in the next room.

“Everything okay, Blue?”

“Yeah… just. It’s cold, and you don’t have to sleep out there on the floor. The bed’s big enough for two. Plus Dogmeat.”

“Oh! Uh…” Sharing beds was not uncommon, of course, but Piper recalls that Blue is wearing shorts and a t-shirt and... “I won’t complain about sleeping somewhere soft and warm,” Piper replies, but she hesitates, heart in her throat. It feels... dangerous somehow. New territory. She edges around the door frame to see Blue making room, pushing towards the wall and lifting up the corner of a blanket. Piper flushes, her stomach doing a little flip.

“Up to you,” she sighs. Dogmeat is at the foot of the bed, watching with sleepy eyes.

Piper takes off her coat and slips into the warm spot Blue had occupied just moments ago. Skin brushes skin, and Blue sighs. It strikes Piper that Naomi hasn’t had much human physical contact since she woke up. She spends a lot of time with Nick, but their friendship is fairly professional, or even parental, and besides, how good is a 2nd Gen synth at cuddling?

“Blue?”

“Mmmm?” Her voice is soft and quite, near Piper’s ear.

“D’you… want to cuddle?” The question comes out all wrong, sounding childish and… chaste. Naive.

“Yeah,” Blue breathes. “Can I be little spoon?”

Piper chuckles, feeling better as Blue matches her tone. “Sure. Sure you can.” Her voice is soothing, not tentative. Blue’s hand is on her elbow for a moment and Piper nearly jumps at the contact, but Blue squeezes slightly and sighs, and then she rolls over. Piper’s arm slips under Blue to support her neck and their bodies press close and warm. She’s so… soft. Curving and yielding, though Piper can feel the tension there too. After a moment’s hesitation, Piper brings her other arm to drape over Blue’s waist, curling her fingers around into a fist. Blue sighs, leaning into the contact and she drifts back into sleep.

In a few hours they will be up, Blue will be packed and limping back to Diamond City and then on to Goodneighbor to continue the investigation for her daughter, but for the moment Piper is just going to will time to stop so she can drift to sleep with Naomi tucked under her chin, snoring quietly as if the world she’d known hadn’t been blasted to all hell. Piper presses her lips into Blue’s hair, the freshly shorn sides prickling her cheek, and smells that undefinable… Blue-ness. She sighs, and closes her eyes.

She’d steal this moment, this lapse in Blue’s judgement and then they wouldn't talk about it… and Piper would tell her story. Guinea pigs and all.


	3. Of The People (Minus Finn)

“Hancock….” The voice is far away, and John knows it's Fahrenheit, which means he can ignore it. Good. Moving is the last thing on his mind. He’s back in his chair with his head tilted back in sleep, arms resting on his desk like he might be working, though really he’s fogged out post-Jet, his tricorn tossed carelessly to the side, covering a pile of empty inhalers.

He smells something burning.

“Damn it! John!”

He hears heavy footsteps, and the sound of his first name rouses him from a post Jet stupor.

“Hnnnng,” he says, boosting himself upright. Something is definitely burning and there’s also a strange flickering and some heat by his right hand. It kind of hurts.

Oh, look. The newspaper is on fire.

The thought is abstract and slow to form, starting somewhere in the vicinity of newspaper (from Diamond City… pretentious bigoted bigots) and making a turn around to the concept of combustion, where in dry things like old desks in ancient wooden buildings can burn, when it slowly dawns on him that he is inside, and the fire is inside, and it’s catching his sleeve…

“Shit! Fahrenheit! My desk is on fire!”

He’d fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, which had dropped from his hand onto the paper, and was now merrily eating a charred hole through the top of his official, mayoral desk.

He jumps up and flaps his arm against his thigh. His coat is now slightly singed, spraying sparks of burning wool, but at least it’s not him on fire but the newspaper on the desk, the Publick Occurrences… thingy… paper, from Diamond City. With a yelp snatches it up and tosses it in the dustbin by his desk, where the contents of the dustbin catch on fire and spews black smoke into the air. It all happens in an instant, but it feels like an endless string of disasters.

That is... not inaccurate.

The mayor of Goodneighbor straightens up, brushing his singed sleeve and snatches up his tricorn hat, jamming it on his head with a huff as the trash burns behind him. Fahrenheit is leaning against the door, scowling. He can see just the slightest tightness at the corner of her mouth, trying not to grin.

_Softy._

“It’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you, dumbass,” she barks at him. “Take some mentats and straighten out. You’ve got some welcoming to do. That synth detective’s here.”

“Valentine?” Hancock breaks into a grin. He hasn’t seen Nicky in a hot minute… couple months at least. He doesn't know why the synth doesn’t just set up shop in Goodneighbor, how he even gets away with living in Diamond City anyway... Hancock scratches behind one withered ear as he fishes around in his coat for the ever present tin of mentats. “He on a case?”

“Dunno. He’s got a broad with him, never seen her around before. Seems like a merc, but she’s got a weird look about her. I think Finn is trying to shake em down, and she kinda looks like there might be blood soon. Might want to go see to it.”

Hancock’s eyes snap from the array of little chalky chems in his hand to his lieutenant. “What ‘d ya mean, she’s got a weird look? Like trouble?”

“I dunno… she’s…” Fahrenheit scowls and makes a weird gesture, like she’s trying to wrap her hands around something wide. “Fleshy? Something’s not right about her.”

“Like… fat? One of those feeder and breeder broads?”

“Nah, she’s got firepower, and armor. She fights. But she looks like she’s never had to wait for a meal. She’s… got padding. I dunno. Go look at her yourself. If she’s with Valentine they’re probably on a case. Should make sure it’s not trouble.”

He’s been up for three days on Jet-- Nicky wouldn’t mind his frazzled state, but he needed to be presentable in order to greet a newcomer. Establish dominance, turn on the charm, all that.

Hancock pops a few mentants in his mouth, letting the chalky chem roll around and coat his tongue with sweet grape flavor, just enough to take the edge off the Jet haze. It’s always a balance between fun and function, of course, because he still has to be Mayor, and being a Mayor is hard fuckin’ work.

“Put that out, Farenheit,” he says, gesturing to the burning dustbin, his speech slow and lazy from the chems. She curses at him, but finds some dirty water and pours it into the bin.

“50 caps says you kill someone tonight,” Fahrenheit calls through the smoke.

Adjusting his ruffled sleeves, Hancock grins at her. “I’m in a good mood Fahra. No one’s gonna die so long as they’re reasonable.” He saunters down the spiral staircase to see what brings Nick Valentine to Goodneighbor.

Just as Fahrenheit had said, there was Finn, trying to extort Nicky and the new girl.

The girl steps from around Nick, who falls back to let her deal with Finn. Hancock’s eyes widen slightly as he gives her a once over. Okay, maybe a twice or thrice over. She was… a real dame. Well damn, Hancock thinks. Soft, and round everything. Not even the heavy leathers can hide those impossible curves. She has the pale discoloration of a birthmark around the left side of her face, which leaves her her brown skin mottled with smooth flesh something like cream.

Hancock swallows a murmur of appreciation, and changes his trajectory. Not because he is scared of pretty dames, but because he likes to know what he’s working with before showing his hand. And if she’s showing up with Valentine… something is afoot, and that isn’t just the Jet hangover paranoia talking.

This dame has her hair shorn on the sides with the top long and artfully tousled, dyed red-- a red straight from Diamond City. She has dark gray eyes, huge and luminous, and haunted. She is bright and transparent, fragile like glass is fragile: hit her one way, she shatters. Hit her another, she’ll cut your fuckin’ throat. Hancock can sense the anger radiating off of her like gamma waves. It makes him want to lick her. See if she’ll make his tongue glow.

 _Hancock,_ he warns himself. Then he giggles.

 _What?_ He shoots back at himself.

_Don’t be a pervert._

_Can’t help it._

_Well… just letch quietly. No licking._

Hancock lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, leaning against the wall. He feels good. The mentants are lifting his mind and his mood, and he has a feeling like electricity is in the air.

“New to Goodneighbor? Gonna need insurance.” Hancock rolls his eyes so hard they feel like they do a backflip in their sockets. The shithead lights up and blows the smoke all over the dame and Valentine, and Hancock bristles. He edges closer.

“Unless it’s ‘keep-dumb-assholes-away-from-me’ insurance, I think I’ll pass,” she drawls, arms crossed over her armored chest. Hancock bites back a laugh as her watches from the alley. She’s gonna fit in just fine, so long as she’s not a fucking bigot. You can never tell with people... though she’s with Nick and that is a good head start on the tolerance-of-freaks front. She’s even a bit of a freak herself, it seems. No one from the Commonwealth has curves like that unless they’re being kept for breeding, and this woman’s got way too much firepower for that sort of lifestyle. He hopes she’s not a bigot because the way she fills out those leathers and verbally spins Finn are doing it for him.

The urge to lick does not abate.

Finn wheedles his way closer and starts going off about big bloody accidents, oblivious to the danger, her hand moving to the handgun at her hip. It’s not a 10mm, but a .44 revolver. Nice.

The extortion racket is a game that Hancock tolerates only so far-- mostly because he gets a cut. But he does wish Finn was a bit more judicious with his business-- some people you could fleece and some people it’s better to just leave alone. Hancock doesn't really have a hard line about this-- he just sort of decided on a whim who to skin and who to spare.

In this case, Nick Valentine is off limits. The metal man has done more for this part of the Commonwealth than any Diamond City security officer with a bat and a chip on his shoulder. \

He sighs and saunters over.

“Woah, woah, time out,” he says in his best statesman voice. Finn jumps and turns to Hancock, dumb mouth hanging open. Hancock very carefully does not look at Nick or the newcomer though he feels two more sets of eyes on him, focusing on Finn as he strolls over and stops. “Why you gotta be like this Finn? Nick Valentine makes a rare visit to Goodneighbor and you’re harassing his friend with that extortion crap?” He tosses a grin towards the synth-- “Good to see you again, Nick,” and his eyes flick over to the woman, who’s watching him intently, hand still hovering on her revolver, before returning to Finn.

“What’d you care? He ain’t one of us!”  


“What, no love for your mayor?” His voice drops into the lower registers of dangerous. “I said let em go.”

Finn starts going off about outsiders and Hancock going soft, and the mayor just sighs. “It’s called diplomacy, jackass,” he says, and before he knows it, his shiv appears in his leathery hands and he’s buried it into Finn’s gut twice. The man dies with a groan.

He looks up, bloody knife dancing in his fingers, and the dame is staring at him. “You alright, sister?”

“You-- stabbed him!” She said. It wasn’t an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. She was a bit… shocked.

Hancock chuckled. “Been meaning to cross that off my to-do list for a while now. You got a good pair of eyes on you. You’ll do just fine here.” He sizes her up and something tickles his hazy memory. A description he’d read in a paper about a gray eyed woman who was looking for her child.

She was soft too, like a… _vault dweller_. Oh. His hackles rise, and his lust goes hard to port, slipping overboard and swimming silently away. Not this one. This one’s complicated. Dangerous without meaning to be. This one walks in and turns carefully developed cultural ecosystems upside down.

The doe eyes and fragile savagery make sense now. Vault 111, from up north a ways, past Sanctuary, where the Minutemen were multiplying. Or whatever. Not just a vault dweller, but a woman out of time, someone who went to sleep before the war, and woke up with the world destroyed.

_Fascinating._

His mind wanders up to the paper from Diamond City that was half soaked ashes in the dustbin. He’d been reading an article about her, something about waking up in a vault full of guinea pigs…. What was a guinea pig? Sounded like a brutal way to wake up, like being attacked by mole rats with your trews down around your ankles… He shudders. He’d read the article a second time a few minutes after the first, before falling asleep on it, because his reading comprehension is not great when he was high or coming down, and the article was pretty boring. In any case, he suspected the vault dweller had been taking the piss.

Then he’d fallen asleep on his desk and woke up with it on fire.

Now he wonders what the real story is. He’s gonna have to get another copy of that damn paper.

Now that Hancock has clapped his dense black eyes on her, he knows she must been taking the piss. He knows sarcasm like he knows how to find a vein. She has a sneer on her lips, eyes hard and glittering. Nick is treading around her like she might be a minefield, though one he wants to protect as well as navigate successfully.

Things click into place. Nick must be helping her find her daughter.

“Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people,” he says with the hard edge of a grin on his ruined lips. “Ya feel me?”

She snorts a laugh, and Hancock smiles sweetly back. “‘Of the people, for the people’? Oh, brother.” The vault dweller is now taking the piss from him, and Hancock is delighted in spite of himself.

He chuckles, his smile hardening to meet her sarcasm. “I can tell I’m gonna like you already,” he shoots back, sounding not at all sincere. “Just consider this town your home away from home.” Her eyes narrow at the mention of the word “home” and his grin widens. ‘Home’ is a button he can push on her. It’s good to know people’s buttons. He should end on a note of dominance.... “Just so long as you remember who’s in charge.”

Me, that’s who.

She matches his smile with one of her own, tight and sharp. Their eyes lock and neither back down a moment, and Hancock notes that the initial surge of lust he’d felt when clapping eyes on the woman had faded into wary curiosity. She is too dangerous a player in the ‘wealth to skirt-chase. He sees a mess of complications surrounding a vault dweller poking around his town, and he’s gonna keep an eye on her, watch what she does, how she does it, and keep her at arm’s length.

Hancock nods to Nick before sauntering back to the Statehouse and his chems and crew.

Upstairs, he finds Fahrenheit cleaning her guns. “The newcomer with Nick is the Vault Dweller that’s been kickin’ around. Keep an eye on her. I want reports. Regular like.”

“Done,” Fahrenheit barks back, jerking her shotgun up so it snaps together with a click.

“Oh, and get me another copy of that damn Diamond City paper, will ya?”

“Why, you want to light it on fire again?”

“Na, wanna wipe my ass with it. Just do it, a’right?”

“Sure boss. Oh, and you owe me 50 caps.”

Shit. God damn. He’d forgotten about the wager. Fahrenheit knows him way too well.

“Finn was a dead man already. Doesn't count.”

“Totally counts.”

“Fine. Go see Daisy. She’s got the accounts. And dump Finn somewhere nice for his final resting place.” Fahrenheit smiles to herself, the bitch, and swaggers out.

Hancock adjusts his tricorn and brushes some lint from the cuff of his coat before popping another mentant. He’s not done making impressions on the vault dweller, even if he’s done talking to her for now.

He’s got a speech to make.


	4. Waiting Around to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY: I need to switch tense. I was trying to push myself to write in the present but it’s just too difficult for me to stick with it. I also don’t think it works with my ponderous writing style either. Back to the good old past tense, where it’s safe and happy and I don’t have to think too hard.
> 
> Spoilers and cannon divergence for the Pickman quests.

“Just… how long… is it going to take?” Naomi took a few shuddering breaths as she spoke, trying to keep the panic from rising. She stood in the basement of the Memory Den, feeling the dank concrete walls closing in on her like a trap.

“A few weeks, at least. This is new territory, even for me and I don’t want to damage you, the brain, or our systems when you go spelunking into a dead man’s memories.” Doctor Amari was examining the cybernetic brain augmentor that Naomi had been gingerly carting around for a full week, which now rested on a silver tray. The doctor was not looking at Naomi or Nick, who stood staunchly at her side. 

A metal hand-- the one still cased in synth skin, came up to press into her shoulder giving her a familiar squeeze. She blinked, feeling tears prick her eyelids and she sighed again. 

“You’re in good hands,” he said, his gaze locked on Amari. “The Doctor will get it done.”

Amari waved them off, already absorbed in her work, and Naomi couldn’t stand to be there a moment more. She fled up the stairs, only half hearing Irma and Nick exchanging words. There was a human man sprawled in memory pods--wearing sunglasses of all things. Watching him made her feel sick. What part of her life had been good enough to relive? What good parts had not been tainted by the bombs and the vault?

In that moment Naomi realized she didn’t have any good memories she wanted to relive. They had all been irradiated. 

“Naomi?” She didn’t respond. 

A mental skeleton hand came to rest on her shoulder again, and this time Nick’s intact hand captured her chin, forced her to look up at him. She didn’t resist. Nick had her back. For a metal man he was probably the most empathetic person she knew. It scared her a little.

He coughed, and dropped his hand, looking a bit embarrassed, but held her eyes with his yellow ones, glowing slightly in the gloom of the Memory Den. “I know it’s upsetting, kid,” he said in that old-time New York accent of his, “But hey, it’s the end of the world, isn’t it? You’ve got plenty of time.”

She laughed, feeling the bitter truth behind his attempt at humor. 

“Is there anywhere in this hellhole of a town to get blind stinkin’ drunk?” She asked, feeling faintly embarrassed by the high pitched and strained pleading in her voice.

Irma laughed from her spot on the couch. “The Third Rail’s your spot, sweetie,” the matron said. “Best bar in Boston-- It’s got everything: live music, mercs, drinks that’ll strip your liver bare. Tell Mags I say hi, Nick.” Her voice was dropping into the lower registers of siliceous. 

“Thanks Irma,” Nick said hastily, and guided Naomi out the the door. 

“Was Irma flirting with you?” She asked absently as she trailed behind the synth. 

“She-- uh. No, no. That’s just Irma.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Nick caughed, and walked a little faster.

The bar was beneath the old statehouse where the ghoul Mayor of Goodneighbor lorded over his domain. Another ghoul, a man named Ham was the doorman, and a few questions revealed that The Third Rail was owned by John Hancock. Of course it was. Hancock was an infuriating man by all accounts, and she was not shocked to learn that he had a stake in most of the businesses here. That “of the people, for the people” crap was thin and getting thinner. A gangster wearing a founding father’s frock coat was still a gangster. He must haul in the caps from this joint. 

The bar was nicer than she expected it to be. As she and Nick descended she caught the strain of music that clashed with the faint sounds of Diamond City Radio trickling from her pip-boy-- either another station, or someone was… singing? She switched off the radio as she hit the landing, Nick on her heels. 

A woman in a red dress was singing, and for a moment Naomi just stared at her, the hypnotism sudden and complete. She hear Nick whisper, “That’s Magnolia.”

_“Now is your motor running close to empty?”_

Naomi took a few steps into the bar, lips parted as something funny happened in her chest.

_“Or are you runnin' from yourself?”_

The funny thing happened again, the lurch of her heart as she fell into the music, the words reaching inside and tearing at her in a way no words had since she woke up.

_“You're thirsty for a brand new kind of pleasure?”_

Naomi’s eyes flicked to the bar, feeling a pang of need for something to numb all feeling. 

_“Or are you hungry to be somebody else?”_

And then a pang of guilt. She was hungry… lonely and she’d never heard something so beautiful. The music was sweet, purified water to parched, irradiated lips, and for the second time that night, Naomi felt tears prick her eyes. Oh, she missed Nate. She would not cry. 

She felt something cold and smooth press into her hands, and looked down to see Nick had gotten her a tumbler of whisky. She murmured thanks; the amber liquid trembled as her hands shook and she tossed the drink back in one gulp to steady herself, and after a moment marched to the bar to order another. The music kept going and Naomi started to drink.

The inability to get drunk did not make Nick the best drinking buddy, but he did try. At least he wouldn’t get tired and ditch her, but he didn’t really loosen up either. In the end they just sat silently at the bar and listened to the woman in the red dress sing. 

Eventually she swanned over, smiling, and ordered a water. Naomi’s head swam with booze and she turned to Magnolia. 

“Your songs are the first live music I’ve heard in… centuries,” she said. 

Magnolia chuckled. “Centuries huh? I hope it was acceptable.”

Naomi blinked. “What? No, it was… perfect.” 

Magnolia laughed, her lips pursed. “Well, a girl tries her best.” Her gaze dragged over Naomi’s hunched frame and she finally smiled. “There’s something special about you, isn’t there?” Naomi jerked slightly. Did everyone know she was the damn vault dweller?

“Uh…” She could hear Nick chuckling from her other side, and elbowed the synth without looking at him. Was the singer hitting on her?

“No, don’t tell me.” Naomi sat very still, like a rabbit hiding from a predator. Maybe if she didn’t move the scrutiny would be over and Magnolia would move on to something else. Like… more singing. “Ahh, that's it, you had that _‘I'm the smartest one here and I know it_ ’ posture. There's something so irresistible about intelligence. Don't you think?" 

“Uh... “ Naomi said again, and Magnolia laughed. “Not much of a performer, though. You’re already clever, so here’s a word of advice: Get charming. It’ll do you miles of good in this world.” She finished her water and smiled. “Now, anything I can do for you?”

Naomi smiled hesitantly. “Your music… can you sing another?”

Magnolia smiled. “I sure can, lovely. You just sit there and soak it all in.” 

As Magnolia returned to the stage, another voice sounded behind her. “Mags is one of the reasons this place is so great to lie low.” Naomi’s drunken gaze swam towards the voice, landing on a short, thin man with a hat. 

_The post-apocalypse does not lack for amazing hats,_ she thought faintly, recalling Hancock’s tricorn and Piper’s newsboy hat. Even Nick had a fedora, and Preston with his cowboy hat… She should get a hat. She _needed_ a hat. Something to define herself by, give herself a bit more charm, a bit more… charisma. 

Think charming…. Charming… “Nice hat,” she quipped. 

The man stared at her, blushing slightly, and it was her turn to smile smugly. Maybe Magnolia was right. “T-thanks,” he managed. He was toting a sniper rifle and didn’t dress like a wastelander might-- more military style than anything. He seemed a bit more put together than the rest of the wanderers in the bar, eyes bright and feverish. She recognized that hungry look, because it had often stared back at her in the mirror, even before the war. 

She gestured to the vacant seat next to her and he sat, ordering a whisky. “Naomi Winters,” she said, offering her hand. The man shook it.

“Robert Joseph MacCreedy. Most people call me Mac, though.”

“This is Nick Valentine.” The man’s eyes were bright blue against his tanned face, and they widened in surprise.

“ _The_ Nick Valentine? Synth Detective? Oh man!” MacCreedy offered his hand across Naomi and she leaned back as the two men introduced themselves. “Nice to meet you in the flesh, sir.” Naomi snorted, inhaling her whisky as MacCreedy froze. “In the metal. The uh… chassis? I mean…”

Nick glared at Naomi as she tried to laugh and swallow at the same time and ended up choking. For the third time that night, her eyes welled with tears, and finally they spilled over and fell freely-- but this time from laughter. She managed to get a breath, and her laugh boiled out of her then, deep from her belly and she braced herself against the bar, nearly wheezing. 

It was all just… too funny. Too fucked up not to be funny. Here she was, in a bar that used to be a subway station, crying over post apocalyptic jazz and chumming up to a metal man and a sharpshooting manchild, and... Mac was edging away from her, and Nick was hovering, concerned and Naomi slapped the bar and tried to get a hold of herself.

“Charlie! Get this man a drink!” She managed after a few gasps. 

“You’ll need to be more specific than that, love,” the Mr. Handy barkeep shot back, acerbic. “An’ only if your buyin’. MacCreedy here owes me more’n a few caps.” MacCreedy was blushing again. 

“What’s your poison, Mac?” She asked. 

“Uh… bourbon.” Mac mumbled. 

“Bourbon!” She shouted back to the barkeep, louder than was strictly necessary. 

Tonight was a night of firsts. First night in two centuries she’d heard live music. First night in two centuries that she’d had a real, belly aching laugh. 

She raised her glass, and Mac clinked his bourbon against it with a crooked, closed mouth smile. Nick huffed, and she elbowed him in the side.

“To Goodneighbor,” she said, and drank. She heard Magnolia laugh, and the music began again, this one up-tempo.

_“Can't go forward, can't go back, / Set your mind at ease, you better relax / Throw yourself a party wherever you're at…”_

Naomi’s foot began tapping and she hummed along.

~~~

Naomi woke with fuzzy memories and a throbbing headache. Even the gentle light bleeding through the curtains was enough to make her groan. She rolled over, letting her mind adjust. She lay on a real bed, one that lay on a real bed frame. Wherever she was, she felt safe-- at least safe enough to have stripped down to a t-shirt and underwear. _Hotel Rexford_ she recalled. She hadn’t been this naked since that night at the Red Rocket when she’d cuddled with Piper. Her mind skittered away from the memory and comfort, not wanting to feel so alone. Damn, but she just wanted to cuddle, wanted to feel someone... 

She spotted her gear in one corner and shuffled over to find something to eat, chugging at some purified water and digging into her chems. A bit of Med-X should take the edge off. 

Syringe and breakfast at hand, she threw herself back on the bed and enjoyed the feeling of springs digging into her ass. This was a fucking _luxury._ She tapped the syringe and found a vein in her arm, slipping the needle in with a slight hiss at the sting. The effect was almost immediate, and she sighed happily as the opioid did it’s good work.

She picked at breakfast, gnawing at the dog steak and washing it down with huge gulps of Nuka. Naomi would never get used to eating dog, but it was better than roach, or fly. She shuddered.

Her memories ghosted back to the night before. Kellog’s brain… down in the basement of the Memory Den. She’d been driven to drink at the Third Rail. Music. A beautiful woman in a red dress. And… Robert Joseph MacCreedy? 

A face attached with the name swam up in her vision, and she suddenly felt apprehensive. Something about… caps?

_“Look, lady. If you’re looking for a friend, or gonna start preaching about the Atom, I’m the wrong guy. Appreciate the drink, but I’m a hired gun.”_

They had bickered back and forth for a while. She’d told him she had a few weeks of time to kill around Goodneighbor while she waited for someone to finish a project for her, all very mysterious. She was thinking of doing a bit of freelance work to sharpen her skills, the plan blooming drunkenly as she said it aloud, said working as a merc was better than waiting around to die, and then… _oh god. Had she hired the guy?_ Naomi scrambled back over to her gear and fished around for her caps stash. It was notably lighter than she’d recalled it being, and a quick count revealed that she was 200 caps and some change short of what she’d walked into Goodneighbor with. Damn it! Well, she was to have to fire him and get her money back. Simple as that. But if hazy memory also served, Nick had made his excuses and headed back to Diamond City that very night, and now she was stuck in Goodneighbor with an untested man-child she’d paid 200 caps to watch her back. Heading back to Diamond City without someone to cover her was frankly suicide. She’d have to keep him on at least until then...

She grabbed the closest article of clothing at hand, and pulled the cargo pants on before she realized what she was wearing-- Kellog’s gear. The pants hugged around her hips, low and… damn it if they weren’t flattering. She scowled. It wasn’t a bad look, with that worn brown jacket and the metal pauldron. Better protection than the road leathers she’d been sporting. It was just creepy… wearing the clothes of the man she’d murdered. The man who had kidnapped her child and murdered her husband.

 _Fuck it._

She buckled one belt around her hips, and the metal pauldron across her chest, over the leather jacket, which was too big for her, but she liked how it lent her a tough, sort of butch look. She settled a pair of fingerless gloves on her hands, and grinned. With her cropped hair, all she needed was a badass hat to top off the tough bitch act she was starting to get into.

_I’m Naomi Winters, and I wear the skins of my enemies._

Now it was time to go fire the merc.

MacCreedy was lounging outside in the weak sunshine, chatting with the Mayor of Goodneighbor. The two of them had a familiar way, and Naomi scowled and was about to turn on her heel and hide until the Mayor fucked off, but it was not to be. 

“Ah, there’s the boss,” Mac said, spotting her. She froze and the Mayor looked up, black eyes catching the light and revealing oily green-black pupils, like a cat’s. Or a demon’s. MacCreedy waved, and she shuffled over, big boots kicking up pebbles and dust as she dragged her feet.

“Just telling Hancock here how we’re teaming up.” 

“The Gunners aren’t gonna like that one bit, RJ.” 

MacCreedy shrugged. “Fu-- forget the Gunners. They won’t make a move if we’re operating out of Goodneighbor.”

Hancock huffed. He was taller than MacCreedy was, but both of them thin edging on starvation, but that’s where the similarities ended. Besides the obvious fact that Hancock was a ghoul, he had a lazy confidence about him that MacCreedy lacked. Mac was boyish, idealistic where Hancock was smooth and… Naomi could admit it, a bit scary. He grinned lazily at Naomi as she stood with arms crossed, glaring at both of them. Should have loaded up on more Med-X to deal with these goons.

“If you’re workin’ out of Goodneighbor, you gonna be gettin’ jobs from me.” The Mayor’s tone was easy, but Naomi felt her hackles rise. If he was going to ask her to pull some gangster shakedown bullshit she was going to laugh in his leathery face. 

Mac nodded eagerly, looking to Naomi for approval. If Hancock was a cat, MacCreedy was an overexcited puppy. Naomi sighed. “What is it?” 

“I got some reconnaissance needs. There’s a lot of weird talk coming in about a place called the Pickman Gallery. It’s raider territory, but it’s been quite up there. Like uncomfortable post coitus quiet?” Naomi raised a singular eyebrow, looking at him blandly and he drawled on, smirking. “Snoop it out and give me the scoop.” 

She blinked, surprised. It didn’t sound like a shakedown or a typical power play. “I might be interested, but let’s talk money, Hancock.”

He chuckled. “Allright. Normal job’s 200, but I like you, so we’ll make it 250.”

“Really? Most people try to bargain _down_.”

“Shut up, boss!” Mac hissed from his spot at her elbow. 

“You’ll find I’m not most people, sister,” Hancock shot back. 

“Pickman Gallery,” she said at last. “On it.”

“Good,” he rumbled out in that broken voice, and gave them a wave before sauntering off. 

Wait… wasn’t she supposed to _fire_ MacCreedy? Now they had a job together.

“Good to go when you are, Boss,” he said cheerfully. 

_Fuck it._ “Let’s go.” She was already armed with her .44 and her combat rifle, a couple of grenades strapped to her belt, and loaded with chems. She was ready as she’d ever be.

~~~

Pickman Gallery was a nightmare of flesh and blood. MacCreedy was just as horrified as they leaned in to listen to the holotape playing on her pip-boy.

“Thanks for the nightmare fuel,” he muttered as he lined up a shot and took out a raider that was barreling down the stairs toward them. They’d been spotted Naomi sidestepped the dead man and took the stairs two at a time. They cleared the building methodically, collecting a few calling cards and looting what they could. 

“Watch it, boss!” MacCreedy hollered, and Naomi ducked as the merc shot from his him, taking a psyco through the eye. Damn, but maybe hiring him hadn’t been so stupid after all. Nick and Piper were great, but they didn’t have Mac’s aim. 

“This is fucked,” she muttered over and over as they cleared the building. Serial killer, carving raiders and painting pictures with their blood. Raiders were posed, dead and decaying. After several long and bloody fights, Naomi found a wall with a long drop. “Mac, over here,” she said. Mac peered down into the gloom. 

“D’you think Pickman’s down there?”

Naomi held a finger to her lips and the two of them strained to listen. Faint sounds of fighting, some voices, could be heard. 

“I say we go for it,” she said. “This fucker can’t hide forever.”

MacCreedy gulped, but nodded. 

She took a moment to shoot some more Med-X and pop a Rad-X before dropping down into the catacombs. 

The fight was not difficult, and when they finally found Pickman, the Raiders had gotten there first. She held up a hand, signaling MacCreedy to freeze, and crouched at the ledge, watching. 

Pickman was a well dressed young man, and he was in trouble. The raiders were attacking him, pushing him around brutally, and the man cried out as he fell, head striking a stone. MacCreedy flinched beside her and Naomi braced a hand against his shoulder, as much for her comfort as for his. She could have looked away, but she didn’t. She could have intervened, but she didn’t, so she wouldn’t look away. 

MacCreedy shifted and a stone rolled under his boot, bouncing down into the room where the Raiders were about to curbstomp the serial killer. The big one had his foot raised over Pickman’s head, but his attention snapped around, and MacCreedy breathed a swear as the raiders boiled into action and bullets peppered them. Her pauldron defected one, and it went ricocheting into the stonework, spraying them with shrapnel and dust. 

“Well, we were probably going to have to shoot ourselves out anyway,” she murmured as MacCreedy flinched. She checked her ammo and took aim, hitting the raider leader in the shoulder with a .44. The fight was short and brutal, and in the end Pickman was _still alive._ God damn it, now what was she going to do?

The man lurched to his feet, bleeding freely from his head and a gunshot wound to his shoulder, smiling at her, thanking her for her service, and he reached out to clasp her hands but Naomi jerked away in disgust. MacCreedy hung back, rifle trained on the psychopath. 

“Oh,” Pickman breathed. His pupils were mismatched in size, concussed and dazed and it would be so easy to kill him… “I see how it is. I see. I do you a favor, taking out the raiders and you are ungrateful and unappreciative of my work. My art. As is everyone.”

“You’re sick,” she spat at him. 

“Says one killer to another.” he breathed, “I know you. I read about you in the paper. I hear it’s _cold_ in Vault 111.” He mock shivered, grinning a sick smile through bloody teeth. 

She never should have let Piper write that damn article. She raised her pistol to blow his brains out, but something dropped from Pickman’s hands she hadn’t noticed-- a grenade? MacCreedy was shouting something as he dove on top of her, and then the world shattered into the whine of ruined ears and white light untouched by shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot bunnies begin to multiply. Which one will I follow? Where will it lead? Even I have no idea!


	5. Bright Light/White Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates are going to be very slow! Sorry. Work is consuming my life right now.

_They were on the vault platform. A blinding orange-white light exploded behind Nate, who dropped into a crouch as he held their baby against his chest. A cloud, mushroom shaped, bloomed out of the flash, somewhere in the vicinity of Cambridge._

_The platform lowered and Naomi’s hands began to shake._

_The silence between the flash of light and the rush of nuclear wind made her feel as if the whole world held it’s breath, and then the rush of the bomb’s fallout tore past their heads as the were lowered down..._

The world resolved into ringing tinnitus and vague shapes against overbright shadows and Naomi had the sensation of falling-- a platform being lowered.

She was on the ground, something heavy on top of her. She groaned, and shoved to try and shift… Nate? He’d been in the flash of nuclear light. 

Had the bomb been that close, close enough to reach out and touch? She didn’t think so. 

She wasn’t in a vault now, but on a dirt floor in a basement. Things smelled… old. Foreign.

Whoever was on top of her did not have Nate’s solid, stocky build. Whoever was on top of her was narrow and bony. 

MacCreedy. 

Her vision clarified enough to make out the sharp cut of the merc’s nose. Half blind, her fingers sought his neck and found a pulse. Slow, steady. Alive.

She rolled him off her and was suddenly struck by how _intact_ she was. A grenade (not a bomb, she reminded herself) had gone off, practically in their faces and she wasn’t riddled with shrapnel or missing limbs or _dead._ Mac was groaning softly, sitting up. 

He shouted something, but Naomi couldn’t hear him. She groped around the basement instead, hoping her hearing would resolve itself soon. Pickman was either nearby and had them trapped, or he was long gone. She tripped over the body of a raider and her hand brushed something on the corpse's face. Sunglasses? She plucked them from the dead woman’s nose and jammed them on her face, squinting through the tinted lenses. Her vision was improving by the moment, but light from the nearby industrial floor lamp beaming out at them hurt her eyes. 

She groped her way back to MacCreedy and sat on the floor with him. He was shouting without her able to make out a clear word, groping around for her and she grabbed his arm. He stopped shouting and they sat there, clutching each other, ears ringing for maybe a few minutes. At last, MacCreedy spoke, and she could hear is overloud voice.

“WHAT THE FU-- HECK WAS THAT?” He shouted.

“Flash grenade,” she said, at what she hoped was a more reasonable volume. They probably made an odd picture, sitting on the floor shouting at each other. 

“THOUGHT WE WERE GONNA DIE, BUT THEN IT WAS JUST… BANG!” He continued to shout.

“My husband got hit by one when he served in the army-- always had some hearing problems after.” 

“SORRY, DID YOU SAY… FARMY?” 

“Never mind. We’re being too loud.” Her vision was better than her hearing, and she saw a trickle of blood pooling out of MacCreedy’s ear. She fished out a stimpak and dosed the merc, ignoring his flinch and the faint sound of a whine that she felt more than heard. She got the same treatment with a fresh hypodermic needle. “We need to get out of here,” she said, examining her chem stash. Nuka Cola and buffouts it was. She popped a pill and offered one to Mac, who squinted at her before declining with a sniff. He took some cola though. She let the strength and confidence flow into her slowly, and hauled Mac upright and together they searched the room, gathering ammo and any valuables just like good Wastelanders should, no matter the situation.

Pickman was nowhere to be seen.

“I THINK HE MADE A BREAK FOR IT!” MacCreedy shouted. 

She agreed. The man was no fighter, and apparently he only murdered raiders, because her’s and RJ’s guts were not currently being used as paint, their viscera smeared artfully over a canvas. She’d never been one to obsess over serial killers the way some people did-- and she’d never had to prosecute or defend one, but she knew the signs. She felt strangely safe from Pickman, knowing he only used raiders for his art. At least for now. 

She shuddered as his words echoed in her head. _“Says one killer to another.” he breathed, “I know you.”_

Naomi found a door, which was unlocked, thankfully. She wasn’t sure if she could have picked a lock at the moment, with her hearing so muffled and her hands trembling.

“Hand on my shoulder,” she said, taking MacCreedy’s hand and putting it ther herself when he didn’t respond. “Let’s get back to Goodneighbor, quick. And not talking unless it’s really necessary.”

“YOU GOT IT, BOSS!” Mac shouted into her ear. 

With her leading and Mac scanning the best they could, the two half blind, half deaf would-be mercs shuffled back to the relative safety of Goodneighbor. They managed to skirt around a Supermutant encampment when Naomi noticed the meat bags not a moment too soon, going slow and quiet through alleys. 

The neon sign was more welcoming to Naomi’s sensitive vision than she’d ever thought it would be, leaving rainbow trails of light as she dragged MacCreedy to the gates. What had Hancock had said to her right after he’d stabbed Finn and spun his knife in deft, rough fingers…? _Goodneighbor. Home away from home._ Well, any port in a storm. But considering it was Hancock who had sent them into this particular hurricane, perhaps he owed them more than caps. Naomi bristled. 

He couldn’t have known, right? Why would a thug mayor send them into such a disturbing, pointless pit? There was nothing to gain from it save the intel.

RJ’s hearing was better by the time they passed through the gates, though he was still shouting. She was still wearing sunglasses. 

“Sweet shades, sister,” said the guy she’d seen in the Memory Den yesterday. He was wearing sunglasses as well, and grinned as she brushed passed him, her hackles rising. 

“You’re probably biased,” she shot back, trying to keep her volume level normal as she passed, chased on by his laugh. Goodneighbor was a weird town. She headed for the state house and barreled up the stairs, heedless of the guards who scattered and then followed in her wake. 

The door to Hancock’s office was shut, the way barred by a machine gun toting ghoul. “Hancock!” She shouted. “I’ve got your god damn recon. You’re gonna love this!”

“The mayor is indisposed, freelancer,” the ghoul ground out.

“You’re going to be indisposed in a second,” she growled. The ghoul laughed and MacCreedy coughed nervously, but then the door sprang open and Naomi squinted at Hancock, silhouetted in the bright afternoon light of his office. 

“How’s my little scout doing?” He said, and he sounded… _fond._ She bristled. Condescending prick. “Find out what’s happening at Pickman Gallery?”

“Oh, I found out. Sicko’s using raider guts to paint pretty, pretty pictures.” 

Hancock held up his hands. “Woah, woah! Chill, chill! No need to shout, sister.” He said, words slurred, eyes unfocused, and she knew immediately that he was high as a kite on _something_. Indisposed. Right. “C’mon in. Hank, shut the door behind us, will ya?” The guard stood down, lowering his gun. 

Naomi and MacCreedy fell into his office and Hancock gestured to the couch, sprawling into the chair across from them. “RJ, did you know your ears are bleeding?”

“WHAT?” Mac said, tilting his head, and Hancock blinked, looking slightly dazed. 

“Fahra, go get the good doctor, will ya?” he cast over his shoulder. His bodyguard grunted and left the room with a dark look towards MacCreedy, who shifted uncomfortably. 

“So, tell me what happened.”

“Pickman’s art isn’t going to have much resale value after the bodies start decaying…”

MacCreedy made a gagging noise, but Hancock chuckled darkly. “Well, they say artistic inspiration is ephemeral, am I right? What’s with you two? What’s with the shouting? And the… sunglasses?”

“Bastard dropped a flash grenade right on top of us,” Naomi said, her ears still ringing faintly. It felt like someone was pressing pillows into either side of her head, and wondered how RJ was fairing. Not well, by his continued shouting. She remembered suddenly how MacCreedy had jumped on her to try and pulled her out of blast range, and had taken the brunt of the fash himself. She felt a surge of gratitude, and shot him a rare, genuine smile. Perhaps the 200 caps had been well spent after all. MacCreedy blinked owlishly at her, confused, and she held a finger to her lips.

Hancock winced as he obersved them. “A flashbang, eh? The glasses are a good look for you, at least.” He was on his feet again in a moment, making a circuit of the room, snapping worn curtains shut over the windows so the office was shrouded in gloom. “Then what?”

“Pickman got away.”

She heard Hancock make a thoughtful hummmm, which meant her hearing was improving. “We’ll get the doc to check you out, make sure there’s no permanent damage. You know, wish I could say that was the worst thing I’d heard of….” He hummed again, thinking. “Top three. I’ll spread the word for folks to stay away from the area, and put a bounty on Pickman.” He fished a bag of caps from inside his red coat and tossed it across the table, where Naomi caught it reflexively. MacCreedy watched, eyes greedy. 

That was it? Naomi’s hands clenched around the caps in her lap, suddenly letting the horror of the past few hours wash over her now that she was… what. Safe? After everything she’d heard of Goodneighbor, to think this place was safe was absurd, but it was the third time that day she’d felt a sense of security behind the town’s walls. First, when she’d woken up at the hotel. Then, when she’d seen the neon signs. And now again, in the mayor’s office.

Hancock was out of his seat, flitting around the room, and a moment later he was back with an armload of chems and couple of bottles. He deposited the paraphernalia on the table, and spread his arms by way of invitation. “You two need a bit of R&R after all that,” he drawled. “Help yourselves. I was just in the middle of a little chem break myself.” He waggled a Jet inhaler between two long fingers and grinned. MacCreedy was already pouring himself a whisky in one tin cup, and sloshed the bottle in Naomi’s direction. She nodded in conformation. Hell yes she wanted a drink. Her eyes went to the chems on the table and spotted a syringe of Med-X, which she snatched and examined closely, finding the hypodermic needle still sealed and the syringe fully loaded. 

She rolled up a sleeve and tapped her arm a few times to find a vein. She didn’t need to, of course, but Med-X was more effective when she actually hit her blood supply immediately, and right now she needed to detach. She felt Hancock watching her, seeing his head tilt to the side from the corner of her eye, even as MacCreedy averted his eyes-- it dawned on her after hitting him with a stimpak that RJ had a strong dislike of needles. Shifting so he wouldn’t be able to see her shoot up, she slipped the needle into the thin skin of her arm and let the drug hit her like a wall, keeping out all the bad, the gore, the radiation, the psycho that seemed to haunt her every step. She tossed the syringe into a nearby wastebasket, where it sloshed wetly-- gross... and looked up to see Hancock grinning. 

“Med-X your ride of choice?”

“Chills me out,” she said, “keeps my hands from shaking too badly.” The words slipped out before she could help herself. She suspected her hand tremors were some sort of side effect from being in cryo for 200 years. She was sure she had some neurological damage which was made worse by stress, which she was constantly experiencing in the ‘wealth. She should probably tell Amari about the tremors… maybe there were better ways of dealing with them than using chems… 

Then again, this was the post-apocalypse. Why the hell not enjoy what it had to offer.

Hancock didn’t say anything about her hands shaking, but his eyes fell on her traitorous glass of whisky, which trembled as she held it. He stared for a moment before his black eyes flicked up to catch her shaded ones. “I’m a mentats ghoul myself,” he said. “Makes me feel… intellectual.” 

“I like the grape ones,” she said, her voice dreamy sounding to her own ears, the way she got when she was using Med-X.

“Ah, give your charm an edge-- I can see ya don’t need help with the brain power, but your people skills… they sometimes leave somethin’ to be desired.”

“Fuck off, Hancock,” she said, but didn’t mean it. Much.

“See, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Is that how ya talk to your allies?”

“Is that what we are?” 

“Sure,” he said, grin lopsided. 

Naomi spared a glance at MacCreedy, who was lying back, staring at the ceiling with his eyes closed, holding his cup of whisky between two hands like a prayer. 

“I gave you some work. Now we’re hangin’ out, bonding over some chems, shooting the shit. We have mutual friends, and mutual enemies. Not sure why you’re so standoffish ‘bout me, if it’s this ghoul mug, or what, but it’s gettin’ a little irritating, seeing as we’re playing for the same team.”

She snorted. “Yeah? What team is that?” 

“We, the people, sister,” he said. She had a vision of Hancock standing up in school, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. But Hancock had never been to school, was not American--despite the belt he wore around his narrow waist--because school and America didn’t exist anymore. But there were new things to replace the old: Goodneighbor existed. Ghouls existed. And somehow, serial killers had survived. So had dirty politicians. He was smiling, but it was edged with something dangerous. 

They were going to have this conversation.

“I don’t give a shit if you’re a ghoul. It’s the whole stick you’ve got-- You haven’t done much to prove you’re not just another gangster in a fancy hat.” 

“You really think that? Would you have takin’ the job if I was just another despot? The way I hear it, you were making toasts to Goodneighbor down in the Third Rail last night….”

“She was,” mumbled MacCreedy, half asleep with his cap pulled over his eyes, but apparently listening. Naomi ignored him, but note this hearing must be getting better if he’d caught that. 

“Keeping tabs on me?” 

“Yeah,” Hancock said simply, and she was surprised again by his honesty. 

She stared at him a good long while. Things were still a little blurry, but she thought he looked a bit hurt. “Fine. Yeah. Goodneighbor’s not what I expected. But I still haven’t decided about you.”

“I ain’t worried, Winters,” he said sweetly. “I’ve got a reputation for being incredibly charming. You’ll come around” 

Her mouth twitched in spite of herself. Damn, but he was right about the charming part, anyway. But not about her coming around. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout sending you into that hell today,” he said. “Pickman’s not gonna be missing for long.”

Pickman’s words echoed again in her mind. “ _You’re sick,” she spat at him. “Says one killer to another.” he breathed, “I know you.”_

She took another sip of whisky. _Steady as she goes. Don’t show Hancock your unrest._

Somehow, she thought he might sense it anyway.

Fahrenheit came by and barked that Amair couldn’t leave the basement and they should go to the Memory Den, and also that she had reached her limit on being a messenger for the day and everyone could fuck right off. 

Hancock waved them away with a crooked smile. “See ya later, trouble,” he quipped to her back, and Naomi stiffened for a moment and tossed him a look over her shoulder, but he was already busy with something at his desk, not looking as they left.

She huffed, squinting as she and MacCreedy went around the corner to the Memory Den.

Naomi had MacCreedy looked at first. He got his ears cleaned up and the doctor warned him to take it easy for a few days. Amari moved on to her, having her remove her sunglasses and doing a few tests involving staring at things at various distances and shining a little light in her eyes.

“Fuck!” She flinches away. 

“Retina burn,” Dr. Amari mumbles. “You’ll be fine in a few more hours. The sunglasses will help with light sensitivity.”

“They would if I was wearing them,” Naomi grumbled, and Amari sniffed. MacCreedy was going to be fine as well, though he might experience some ringing in his ears… indefinitely. The sniper groused, but conceded that at least it wasn’t his vision. Naomi had to agree, jamming the glasses back on her face and scowling. 

“Go get some rest Mac,” she said, hoping he’d get the hint and leave so she could talk to Amari. 

“C’mon boss,” he wined. “Don’t you wanna keep drinking?” She stared at him a moment and then jerked her head towards the door.

“Fine, I’’ll meet you at the Rail. I’ve got to talk to the doc about something.” 

“Right,” MacCredy mumbled and shuffled out. “Drinking is not what I had in mind for rest, you know,” Amari said tartly, turning back to her console. “What did you want?”

“Any progress on the brain interface?” 

“It’s been a whole day. So, no. I am just beginning my study.” The doctor paused, and peered at Naomi. “That wasn’t what you wanted to talk about, is it?”

Naomi shook her head slowly, and unclenched her hands. “I… can’t stop shaking,” she said at last, holding out her trembling fingers. “It gets worse under stress.”

Amair stopped typing and came over to examine the shaking hands that Naomi offered her. They didn’t feel like her hands. They were dirty, and rough, the manicure destroyed within days of travel in the Commonwealth, nails ragged and crusted under with dirt. Fresh scrapes covered newly formed scars, and several of her fingers were taped to protect tender blisters. 

“I see,” the doctor said.

“Do you think… the time in cryo could have done something to me? Neurologically speaking?”

“Perhaps,” Amari said, taking her hands and examining them. “It would be difficult to track. You say it gets worse under stress?”

“Yes,” Naomi breathed. “Sometimes I get these… flashes of memory, and the tremor gets worse.”

“It sounds psychological to me,” Amair said, stretching out Naomi’s arms and examining the slight tremble in her hands. “Do you take anything for it?”

“Med-X helps.” 

“Then I suggest you continue to medicate with it. Just be careful, as the addiction can be worse than what you’re trying to cure. Have you considered that you are suffering from acute PTSD?”

Naomi nodded slowly. Nate had suffered deeply from PTSD after his service and discharge. He was jumpy at small noises, and became slightly, disturbed at times, but he never trembled. And he was never… so angry. 

Naomi supposed she’d always been angry, though. It’s what had driven her all those years, to be a lawyer, to fight against the injustice that plagued the old world. It had landed her the label of communist sympathizer, which had just made her even more angry. 

PTSD, huh? It was entirely possible. “What do you suggest?”

Amari sniffed. “It’s not uncommon-- I would say most people in this world have experienced some kind of trauma. Maybe more than one kind. Find things that help you cope. Med-X. Friendships. Security and safety.” 

It certainly was a brave new world when medical doctors prescribed self medication and drug dependency as treatment. 

“Thanks doc,” she mumbled, pulling her hands away. 

“If it gets worse, come see me. I could try to devise a few tests, but honestly… I think it’s all in your head, and I’m no psychologist.” 

Naomi excused herself and headed upstairs, lost in thought. Her hearing was better, and as she passed an open door, she caught the faint strain of something familiar… something old. Pre war.

“WILL THE SILVER SHROUD’S IDENTITY BE REVEALED TO HIS ENEMIES? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT…”

She paused at the door, and peered inside the room. A small man-- a ghoul, sat by a radio smiling faintly as he listened. Bloodshot, ghoul eyes snapped up to study Naomi and she took a step back.

“Goodneighbor’s crazy,” he said, and she could hear a slight stutter in his voice. She could relate. “Thieves, murderers… worse… S-sometimes you gotta escape just to make it through the day.”

Naomi smiled crookedly at the small man huddled by his rado. “I feel you,” she said.

“Yeah.. reliving old memories. Like Thanksgiving 2071. Ma made a 12 pound turkey and we all listened to ‘The Silver Shroud vs. Captain Cosmos.’ Even pa was there. Ever listen to The Silver Shroud?”

She and Nate had planned on dressing up as the Shroud and the Mistress of Mystery for halloween, 2077. Sara was going to be their little devil… The words caught in her throat, and Naomi simply managed a nod. 

“That’s what we need around here,” Kent was saying. He seemed to be riding down a well practiced speech, the sort of speech someone would give to people who were determined not to listen. The poor man seemed so fragile. Naomi took another step into the room. “No matter how bleak things get, he’d save the day!”

“My family and I used to listen to every new episode,” she said softly. 

“That’s impossible,” the ghoul said. “Those broadcasts were 100’s of years ago. You’d have to be pre-war, like me, and you’re no ghoul.” He was eying her, clearly not buying it and her crooked smile returned.

“I’m as pre-war as you. Just… slept through most of the fallout. Cryogenically frozen… I only just woke up.”

“Oh man! That’s amazing. You’re just like Mister Abominable from Episode 83.” Naomi laughed. “Wasn’t he… a cave man?”

“That’s the one! They found him floating in an iceburg off the harbor.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I guess I am.” 

“Boy, if you just woke up… the world these days must take some getting used to.”

“How did you get used… to everything?” Naomi kept her hands tucked behind her back, to hid their shaking.

“I mainly focused on survival. It got real bad after the bombs, and it was too painful to think of the old days.” Naomi’s hands clenched tighter. That wasn’t an option for her. Her past was here, somewhere in the Commonwealth. Her past, named Sara. “But now… now it’s all I got.” The ghoul considered her, and she had the oddest impression that he was both a very young man, and a very, very old one. “Say, I got a question for you.”

“Mmhm?”

“What if the Silver Shroud was real? With his black trench coat, and his gleaming silver sub-machine gun.” Naomi hid her smile with another dip of her head, the impression of him being both innocent and wise growing with each naive word. “I got a plan to bring him back. A plan to give us little people hope, a symbol of something better.”

“Plan? The Shroud was just a radio play character.” “Yeah, but what if he was real? What if he could be real now? I built a gun, even better than than one in the show. But to make it work I still need one thing. The genuine Silver Shroud costume!”

“But there was no costume… it was a radio show.” The poor, sweet man was clearly delusional. Naomi worried about this Memory Den technology and what it was doing to the ghoul’s brain. 

“They made one for the TV show! It’s here, in Boston, at a comic book store!” And here it was…. the other shoe hit the floor. “Will you help?”

Naomi coughed. “I’ll… see what I can do. What’s your name?”

“Kent,” he said, a grin splitting his wrinkled face nearly in two. “Kent Connelly.” 

“Nice to meet you Kent. I’m Naomi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KENT IS SO CUTE. :(


End file.
